


Monsters

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Days, Gen, Pre-Canon, Sibling Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even at thirteen, Sherlock has the ability to draw Mycroft back to the Holmes estate from school at the drop of a hat, and what Mycroft finds often worries him.</p><p>A short special request piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters

              _If it were not for Sherlock,_ Mycroft Holmes thought to himself as he leaned against the window, _I doubt I would ever come back. Certainly not at the drop of a hat like this._ But there he was, on the train, watching the scenery roll by in a series of lazy hills as he sped towards the Holmes estate. It had been nearly three in the morning when he had received the call from Eliza – his brother’s Latin tutor and Mycroft’s most reliable pair of eyes and ears in the household.

Her panicked voice across the line, broken by short sobs and whimpers in between words – “Sherlock!...the new maid…oh dear _heavens_ …please do come!” – was all it took to bring Mycroft running back to the old Holmes manor; to Sherlock and, he could not suppress a shudder at the thought, their mother.

From the station, he rode by car to the estate, his mind twisting in on itself as he tried to imagine what had both necessitated his leaving school and Eliza’s breathless pleas.

_Sherlock, what have you done?_

Upon arriving at the Holmes estate, he found it in an uproar, and his presence was not initially noticed until Eliza spotted him.

“Oh Mister Holmes!” Mycroft stiffened reflexively, forcing himself not to flinch as she threw her arms about his neck. Even now, he had yet to reconcile himself with being ‘Mister Holmes.’

“What happened?” He fought to keep his voice low as he pried the elderly woman from him. “Where’s Mother?”

“Asleep. Charles put her to bed while I was trying to get hold of you.” She paused, adding, “She’s all right.”

Already, Mycroft’s eyes were darting around the foyer, looking for any sign of his brother. “Where is he?”

At the mention of Sherlock, Eliza immediately shrunk back from him before replying in hushed tones. “He’s holed himself up in his room.” She paused. “You won’t be too hard on him will you, Mister Holmes? Your mother was already rather hard on him, according to Diana.”

His head jerking round, he stared her down. “Did you hear what was done? What was said?”

She held out her hands as if to say ‘I don’t know’ and Mycroft took off down the hall towards his brother’s room.

When he made it, the door was, as he expected, firmly locked. “Sherlock.”

No answer.

He inhaled almost audibly, then rapped on the door. “Sherlock. Let me in.”

There was a long silence and then a barely audible scuffling followed by a faint. “Why should I?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Sherlock, _please_.”

There was another long silence, followed by a soft click of tumblers as the younger boy unlocked the door. Mycroft waited for the sounds of movement to die down before turning the knob and entering the bedroom.

Sherlock Holmes sat on his bed with his knees drawn up against his chest, a dark bruise blossoming against his left cheekbone. His pale, bright eyes, however, watched carefully as Mycroft shut and locked the door behind him before slipping his school jacket off of his shoulders and sitting on the bed alongside him, his legs stretched out, back against the headboard. There was a long silence, and the elder Holmes let it swell and lengthen, knowing that starting the conversation himself would be fruitless.

Finally, Sherlock’s lips moved almost imperceptibly. “Is there something wrong with me?”

Inclining his head slightly, Mycroft started to reply, but waited out of something like instinct, and was rewarded when his younger brother quietly added. “Am I a monster, My?”

Sharply, but almost afraid of the answer, he replied. “Who called you that?”

In response, Sherlock merely shot his older brother a look, and a jolt of electricity blistered its way through Mycroft’s veins, convulsively sending his fingers curling into fists. When he finally spoke, he was almost alarmed by the edge on his own voice. “What happened?”

Sherlock shrugged the question off almost violently, his lip curled. “It was an experiment.” He paused, then shrugged again limply. “Is it my fault if a lab mouse dies during an experiment?” At this, Mycroft raised his eyebrows and Sherlock waved a small, long-fingered hand dismissively. “She’s fine.” He wrinkled his nose. “She ruined it though.”

 _The maid._ The correlation between the woman and Sherlock’s ‘lab mouse’ had been clear to Mycroft almost immediately, and he felt no need to indulge his curiosity further as to the content of his brother’s experiment – if he needed to he would consult Eliza on the subject.

The boys sat in silence for several minutes, Sherlock shifting to settle against Mycroft’s side, his heart battering against Mycroft’s ribcage like a bat with a broken wing, and the elder Holmes brother held his breath as if fearful of disturbing the younger boy.

“Am I a monster then, Sherlock?” The words slipped out and Mycroft flinched at the sound of his own voice, all too conscious of the implications at play.

There was a pause – Mycroft could, without looking, see Sherlock’s brows knit together – and then a quiet, sullen “No, of course not.”

“Then,” Mycroft wet his lips, his fingers drifting into the mass of dark curls atop his brother’s head, “neither are you.”

Sherlock didn’t appear to have an answer for that, and instead came the feel of an already-sharp cheekbone pressing against his flesh. Exhaling almost in relief, he leaned his head back against the headboard, his fingers knotting themselves gingerly into the younger boy’s curls. As the light dimmed in the window, he glanced at his watch. He had already missed the last train and would have to take the earliest one in the morning in order to make it back. It was as he was running this through his head that Sherlock’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Do you ever think there’s something wrong with us?” Mycroft froze, a thousand answers bubbling up from the pigeonholes that dotted his mind, his eyes darting to the visible mass of his brother’s hair before carefully selecting the answer he would use.

“There is nothing wrong with us Sherlock. Different, yes. But not wrong.” He paused, then added, “We have the advantage, brother mine. Not them.”

At this, Sherlock grew quiet, and in time Mycroft felt the younger boy’s weight shift as muscles relaxed and his pulse slowed until glancing down, he saw Sherlock’s eyes closed, the dark bruise shadowing his features. There was something unsettling about his younger brother when he slept – he looked almost fragile, and it was all Mycroft could do not to wake him and bring the sharp-eyed boy he knew back.

Closing his eyes, Mycroft whispered aloud, half to himself. “How are we going to protect you from the world Sherlock?” Beside him, Sherlock stirred slightly in his sleep, and another thought occurred. “Or visa versa, for that matter?”

Sherlock had no reply.


End file.
